


Sherlock Ficlets

by Tinq



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:12:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinq/pseuds/Tinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a few ficlets I've been itching to put down on paper. They're all Johnlock, if you haven't noticed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slumber

**Author's Note:**

> John's been working late, and he comes home to find himself with drooping eyes and a Sherlock curled up on the couch. Whatever shall he do?

    John stumbles inside, his foot catching on each step as he enters 221b Baker Street. Dark shadows line the bottom of his eyes and he's thinking a thousand jumbled thoughts at once as he ascends to the main floor, stepping into the parlor.

    Turning left, John expects Sherlock to be up, working on some wild experiment with a few nicotine patches in his arm. After shuffling tiredly through the kitchen, John steps back into the main room and realizes Sherlock is not where he ought to be.

    Instead of dawdling over some pointless test, or even sleeping in his own bed, his pale, slender body is curled up, much like a cat, on the left side corner of the couch. While his eyes sag slightly, the look of tiredness on his face can't even be noticed, for he looks so... peaceful. John looks at him in wonder. Since when did Sherlock, the one and only pompous consulting detective, sleep? Let alone take cat naps on the couch?

    Too tired to think any longer, John takes his coat off and slides his shoes from his aching feet. It had been a long day, of many rubbish appointments and awkward patients and... John shuddered, realizing he'd just have to go back tomorrow. Squinting back at the kitchen clock, John realized how late it really was - nearly four in the morning. No wonder Sherlock was asleep.

    Even in his insanely tired state, John's eyes could not help but linger on Sherlock. The ruffled black hair that fell just perfectly on his face, the long features, the untucked burgundy shirt... John felt something twist inside of him. Something that was supposed to sit still and beat quietly and not react to looking at his best friend.

    Sighing a bit, John simply stood, partway between the parlour and the kitchen. What was there to do now? Go to bed? He closed the windows, shut the blinds, blocking the moonlight that had touched Sherlock's pale face so perfectly. He tramped down the steps, his mind growing foggier and foggier as each foot fell down on wood. He locked the front door, made sure he could hear Mrs. Hudson's light snoring, and sighed again. Things were alright on Baker Street. Things were just fine.

    But were they? As John made his way back up the steps he could no longer prevent his mind from crossing boundaries so unrealistic their had been no reason to go to. What if someone was hiding in Sherlock's room? Or upstairs? What if they were plotting to kill Sherlock? That thought brought John back a bit. Of course there was nobody in the apartment. Even so, John shivered, glancing behind his shoulder.

     _Focus on something else..._ John noticed the small pile of blankets on the floor. Would Sherlock be cold? Nonsense. Just go to bed, John, the man can take care of himself... even so he picked up a blanket and lumbered back over to Sherlock. Again John felt a peculiar wrenching in his heart - something all too warm, all too  _there._ And as John began to drape the blanket over Sherlock, again he let his imagination get the better of him. What if someone  _was_ going to try and get Sherlock?

   His mind played out a sequence in which he vanquished whatever enemy was attempting to slay Sherlock, and the gratitude from the consulting detective. Soon enough, his eyes began to close and each sequence in his head played like a foggy dream. Eventually John lay on the couch, snuggled into Sherlock's chest, their blanket draped over them. Sometime later, when John was deep into slumber, Sherlocks arm draped over his side, shielding him from anything but Sherlock's touch.

 

\---

 

    Sherlock's mind slowly drifted in and out of sleep. He pictured himself standing at his kitchen table, finishing up his experiment on the digestive track of mice, disecting the simple creatures. He imagined John walking up, and burrying himself deep in his chest...

     _What?_   Sherlock's green eyes shot wide open, yet he remained still. Immediately the warmth registered - a large, fuzzy blanket had been draped over him... and John.  _John... John? John!_ The shorter man's body was tucked deep under Sherlock's arm, nestled into the warmth of both Sherlock and the couch. It took another moment for Sherlock to register the fact that John was lying with him, on the couch, tucked under a blanket.  _John..._

He took a moment to consider this logically. Possibly it could be a prank? Not likely from John, he wasn't exactly the type for pranks... could it have been Mrs. Hudson? Again, far too innocent of a suspect. Had Gavin... no, Greg put him up to this? Lestrade, yes, it must have been... and still, Sherlock felt that his logic was a tad unnecessary. What if it wasn't a prank at all?

     _Then really,_ Sherlock thought to himself.  _What could it be?_   Could it be that John had purposely placed himself where he was? Did Sherlock even remember falling asleep - as he so rarely did - on the plush couch? And yet, a vague memory pushed itself to the front of his mind - he had been working on a single experiment, something about rats, for two days straight without sleep. It was hardly surprising he found himself deep in slumber on the couch... but with John?

    Almost as if he had heard Sherlock think his name, John found his eyes open. Having facing the opposite direction of Sherlock's face, John was not yet aware the consulting sociopath was awake - let alone baffled, but otherwise fine with, the awkward predicament.

    Immediately Sherlock could feel John's nervous breathes and the small tremors that were coming to him. Instead of turning around to see if Sherlock was awake, John simply swung himself out of the blanket, and took two shaky steps toward his bedroom.

    Almost instantly did coursing pain drive from John's shoulder to his leg. He fell down on one knee, balling his hands into fists and clenching his teeth. Now Sherlock was slightly alarmed. He sat up, his eyebrows furrowed.

    "Are you... alright?" His voice seemed to shatter the silence - like a gunshot. John jumped, shot Sherlock a look that was mixed purely be fear, guilt, and embarrassment. He shot of towards his room, limping until he was able to slam the door behind him, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

 

\---

    In his bedroom, panic coursed through John's veins just as heavily as the pain. What had he been _thinking?!_ Was he out of his blasted  _mind?!_ He paced the room as worriedly as he could, with a limp. This was not good. Very, very, very, not good. John felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. Had he really just slept on the couch with Sherlock Holmes? Under a  _blanket?!_ The knock on the door seemed to confirm his suspicions.

    "John? Are you alright?" John was surprised - and slightly jealous - at how calm Sherlock's voice sounded. Was he not panicking the way John was? Did he wake up and see something that wasn't John curled up under his arm?

    "N-no... I'm fine, I'm fine, Sherlock, just leave me be..." John hadn't meant to sound harsh at all, really, but to his ears it sounded like a bit of yelling had escaped into his voice. Sherlock, on the other hand, only heard the nervous squeak on his name. Did the whole... couch incident really bother John so much? Or was he the one being weird? Immediately a feeling in his stomach lurch and he felt something pass through him. Something warm.

    "John." The voice was too gentle to belong to Sherlock - yet it did. "John, at least come out and talk. It's really alright." Simultaneously, both Sherlock and John felt something shift inside of them. Something that brought up a picture of one another, something that made their heart beat a bit faster. Something that made John Watson feel so nervous yet uncharacteristically giddy that he limped over to the door, opening it up a few inches.

    "Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I dunno, I was tired, can we please just not talk about th-" John's words were interrupted as Sherlock swung the door forward with a pale hand, catching John Watson off guard. He would have said something with his shaky words and stuttering lips if Sherlock's had not been pressed against his. And thought at first John's eyes widened in shock, something closed them, and they would have stood there for hours if a voice hadn't called from up the steps.

    "Oi! You two! I've got a case!" 

   


	2. Too Tough to Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets all defensive-ey of Sherlock. ;) Just goes to show how much we'd do for people we care about.

    Leaves fell like ripped paper, leaving the damp bark they once called their home behind. A large, black, dress-shoe crushed a few underfoot, but the tall man wearing them cared not - his eyes were straight forward and his mind was eons away.

    The smaller pair of ruddy sneakers that walked alongside, though, could not stop sneaking glances at the man in the dress shoes. He black hair sat perfectly on his head and, in the late night air, his breath came out in perfect wisps. His mind was eons away, but focused on other, more human things.

    "John, do I have something on my face or is their a reason you keep glancing at me?" The tall man's lips were perfectly stiff, and his words weren't accusatory or venemous - simply  _there._

   Blood rushed up to John's ears, and he shaped his hand into a fist. Why did Sherlock constantly call him out on such things? John shook his head. He knew Sherlock far too well to start interrogating his movements.

    "Where do you wanna go, Sherlock? We could go get a pint, if, ya know, you're up for it...?" A mere hour before the two had added another crime to their list of solved murders, this one being particularly easy, dealing with an amateur who had left evidence lying around the house. It wasn't the kind of case the pair would normally pride themselves on solving, but Sherlock had felt like taking a long walk home instead of fetching a cabby.

    So there they were - one short, and one tall, walking down the autumn sidewalk, the night sky completely demolished by the clouds. Possibly the two would have arrived home and slept in their beds in silence if Sherlock had not turned abruptly right, turning down a more run-down street with a few cruddy bars.

    Not wanting to go into such places, John quickened his pace slightly. "Nevermind, I'm getting tired. I say we make straight for home..." Sherlock absentmindedly listened to John's voice, like a pillow - warm and familiar, creating a comfortable buzz in the background. It wasn't until a shrill sound pierced the night that John stopped speaking.

     A long, shrill wolf whistle echoed from behind the pair. John twisted around the see a middle-aged, sharply dressed men, slowly trailing the two.

    "Hey, sweethearts, got a room for a third?" His voice like silk, John clenched his fist in his pocket and furrowed his brows. He glanced sharply at Sherlock, who was then fully aware of the situation, but remained silent.

    "Aw, big guy, I say we ditch the ferret and head back to my place... whatcha think?" John grit his teeth and muttered obsenities that sounded something like, 'Piss off...' under his breath. Though the insult was mild, inside John was infuriated.  _How dare someone insult_ our  _Sherlock..._  John blushed at the thought, and silently willed Sherlock to walk faster. He did.

    "Why don't you wanna play nice? I'm being nice. You're being a nasty twat." John let out a shaky breath and urged himself to keep walking. Don't turn around. Just stare straight forward. Did he have his gun on him? Somehow shooting him, though, didn't seem like an answer... John tucked his thumb in his fist.

    "You just gonna keep walking, ya fucking twats?" The man was so close it sounded to John like a snakes his. "Let's get rid of the fag, big guy, and you and I could have some fun..."

     _Enough!_ A line, someplace deep inside John, snapped. He wheeled around, the man so close now he only needed to take two steps closer to reach him. He aimed a fist at the man's face and  _cr_ unch!It sounded like a break, but John couldn't tell for sure.

    A deep fire bubbled in the mans eyes. He swung a fast at John, and only then did Sherlock realized John was no longer beside him. He turned back to see the man miss his punch, but aim a hefty blow at John's shin, letting him stumble slightly. A nasty grin plastered on his face he aimed another blow at John - this time piercing his left shoulder. Letting out a strangled cry, John stood, tackling the now-cackling man, swinging heavy fists at him.

    The man fired back, kneeing John several times in the groin, punching him a few times in the jugular.

    "John!" Sherlock's voice warned. "Just let it go!" Sherlock couldn't help it - he was tired and bored and wanted to go home and didn't give rubbish about people cat-calling him on the streets. John turned to glare at him for a fraction of a second. In that ounce of time alone, the slick-haired man reached into his pocket, unsheathing a small pocket knife. He dug it into John's side twice, ignoring his strangled yells. He had the change to drive it into his shoulder once before Sherlock realized what was happening.

    "John!" Sherlock let the wild concern and defense slip into his voice as he sprinted towards the man. With John on the ground, blood slowly trickling out of him, Sherlock managed to aim a hefty kick at the man chin and hand, kicking the knife from his grip. Sherlock gathered his anger into his face, beating every last breath of his stomach until he could not longer breathe and his face was splattered in blood.

    He muttered something intelligent alone the lines of, 'Fuck off' and slunk back into an alleyway to lick his wounds. Rage burned near to the surface and he grit his teeth in an ugly snarl at the alleyway. He almost completely forgot about John before he let out another moan.

    "Christ, John, watcha have to go do that for... John? John!" The world around John Watson faded to black, and faintly his ears picked up the sound of buttons on a cell phone.

 

\---

 _Beep. Beep. Beep._ John opened his eyes to find everything too bright, too white, too clean. Everything appeared fuzzy and weird at first - dimly he could make out a tall, pale figure in the chair beside him, and faintly he recognized pain in his shoulder. Searing white pain that nearly brought tears and bad images to his eyes. If it hadn't been for the nimble-fingered hand holding his.

    Turning his head slightly, John saw the sleeping Sherlock's arm stretch to his. If his shoulder had not been burning so badly and and his side not been throbbing faster and louder than his heartbeat he might have brought it to his lips to kiss it.

     _Maybe another time..._ He thought, his mind too fuzzy and his heart too warm to process what he had just said. John Watson dipped back into slip just as Sherlock opened his eyes.


	3. Needing You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was a hundred words from being done with this one when I clicked out of the box, hit backspace, and lost it all. Normally I'd move on but I quite loved this one.... so, in other words, comments/kudos would be immensely appreciated, this took a long while.

    Sherlock awoke, his heart pounding wildly.  _John. John. I need... someone. Someone. Someone._ His mind replaced the words as they had been trained to, and Sherlock was ready to play along. What was he thinking? His heart was aching wildly and all Sherlock could think about was....  _someone._

    He shot off the couch, noting that John must be out as his coat and shoes were both absent, and slid from his pajamas into trousers and a button down. He needed someone. And if he couldn't have... John, and if John wasn't there, Sherlock knew someone who always was.

 

\---

    Molly Hooper swiveled from desk to desk, from laptop to desktop, to notepad to journal, taking notes and scratching out long paragraphs as she studied everything. It was just the kind of morning she enjoyed - easy, quiet, simple. Someone to talk to always sounded nice, but otherwise Molly quite enjoyed her job. Possibly she would have continued swiveling in her chair to each desk, taking notes, if the door did not open behind her.

    She turned around, prepared to see Lestrade or John or even Anderson stroll in but it was Sherlock. He peered down at Molly, his eyes wild with something Molly could only pin down as desperation.

    "Uh, h-hullo, Sherlock. How's-" But Molly could speak no more. Sherlock strolled forward, lifting Molly up from her seat, breathing in her scent, and falling into her with a kiss. While it was quite nice, and Molly's heart began to beat rather fast, she knew what this was. This wasn't  _love_ that the great consulting detective was feeling. She could see it in Sherlock's tight lips, his eyes shut tight with desperation, his eyebrows knitted into passion. This was not for Molly. This was to quench Sherlock's thirst for something he felt he couldn't have.

    Possibly they would have stood there for longer if the door to the side had not opened and a mug had not crashed to the floor. Out spilled tea on the white linoleum, and the man who stood there let his mouth drop open. It was John.

    Sherlock swallowed, and Molly stepped away nervously. Emotions bubbled very near to the surface inside of John - what was Molly doing with  _his_ Sherlock? But of course, Sherlock was not his. He would never understand emotions - especially not John's. Especially not when it came to love. John's insides twisted at the word and his pulse quickened. He couldn't read the expression on Sherlock's face, but it wasn't regret, John could tell.

    "I...I... I've got to go..." John swiveled around, leaving the dropped mug to Sherlock and Molly - the latter of which had not stepped back to face Sherlock with brave eyes.

    "Why, Sherlock?" She whispered. "Why do you do this? Toy with him like that? Don't you see? Aren't you able to read emotions? Can't you tell that he - that I, that all of us - we all care for you? Don't you know that you're supposed to care back?" She swallowed, trying to calm her shaking and remain stable. "It's not like you don't care for him, too. I can see the way you look at him. The way your eyes crinkle when you smile at him. I can feel feel your pulse right now - you love him, Sherlock. And you just... break him into pieces like this!" Molly's voice caught, and she sat back down in her chair, turning away from Sherlock. Molly Hooper stared determinedly forward until she heard Sherlock whisk out the door.

 

\---

    "Aye, lad, I think you've had enough..." The bouncer slid the few pounds on the counter back to John, who's mind reeled about in every direction.  _I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes. I'm in love with him..._ Normally, John had his mind trained to block out such thoughts, to deny anything of the sort. But with nearly ten pints swishing around inside of him, John was so completely wasted all he could see before him was Sherlock. Always Sherlock...  _No, I'm in love with a straight, gorgeous, devil of a consulting detective who solves thievery yet managed to steal my heart..._

     John knew, deep down, that the bartender was right. That he had enough. He stood up from the stool, and nearly fell back down as a sharp pain stabbed his leg. Between the pain of his pounding head, his racing heart, and his throbbing leg John walked out in the the cold November night. John fell against the outer wall of the ruddy bar, and hugged the wall as he turned a corner into a dark alleyway. Filled with pain, John slid down the wall, letting his legs splay out before him.

    What time must it be? 11? 12? Early morning already? John did not know, but his eyelids drooped and he let out a sigh. He watching a slideshow of Sherlock play before his eyes, like a tauntingly gorgeous film. Soon enough his eyelids drooped entirely and he was out.

 

\---

    "Stocky man? Sandy hair? Likely walking with a link?" Sherlock's patience was quickly running thin. " _Have you seen him? "_  The bartender squinted at Sherlock, and immediately recognition crossed his face.

    "Yes, aye, he was a short bloke, yes..." He took a swig of his beer as if he had all the time in the world - which, of course, when Sherlock was involved, he did not. "He had nearly ten pints under his belt, when I told him he oughta stopped. He listened right well, but he was wasted, he was out of it. He left maybe 45 minutes ago, turned left, and he had a nasty limp...." If the bouncer had any more to say, Sherlock didn't hear it. 

    Sprinting out of the bar, Sherlock turned left, glancing around the silent street. Nothing but a few rundown houses, an alleyway to his left, and a shabby diner across the street. Somewhere in London, John was walking around, completely drunk. Could he have walked all the way back to the flat? Sherlock had run on foot, checking every bar he could find starting at Baker Street. He hadn't brought any money for a cab and, frankly, his mind was too preoccupied with the though of John to notice. 

    Normally, Sherlock would not have checked the alleyway on his left, but under the circumstances of John's drunkenness he took the chance anyway. Sure enough, a few feet into the darkness, Sherlock's eyes caught a short pair of legs sticking at from behind a trash can. He strode forward, kneeling down at John's side. It was John - and he was out, in his drunken sleep. How would they get home? Sherlock grappled his pocket for a phone, but found none. Had he really forgot everything?

     _Oh, John..._  Sherlock felt his heart twist in pain. Was he really so upset? So.... in love? The idea of emotions inside of Sherlock, the consulting detective, made him grit his teeth. Focus. Get John home... Sherlock felt his arm slip under John's shoulder and the other his knee. John was slightly heavier than Sherlock had been expecting, but he didn't care. He felt wetness on his face and didn't even both thinking it was sweat. It was a tear.

    

 

    About five blocks of walking later, Sherlock arrived back at his flat. He had avoided the questioning eyes of drunken strangers, ignoring late-night city walkers, and kept his eyes either on John's face or straight forward the entire walked home. Sherlock set John half on the ground, half on his arms in order to swing the door shut, and carried him inside.

    Baker Street was an immensely quiet place - Mrs. Hudson was likely asleep in her room. Sherlock heaved himself up the steps, John in his arms. No matter the strain on his hand, Sherlock felt nothing but passion.  _Love._  Something Sherlock Holmes had only felt for family. Is that what John was then? Family? Either way, Sherlock did not want to leave his side. Not now, not ever again. Sherlock slid John onto his own bed, burying him in the Sherlock-scented comforter. Sherlock slid onto the bed, above the blankets, a moment later, not sure if this was wrong or right or whether he want to sleep or watch over John forever.

    An hour or so later, Sherlock's mind chose sleep after a hectic night. Another hour of slumber and Sherlock was cocooned in the blanket, with John's chest pressed up against his own. The last thing Sherlock could remember thinking - or doing, more like - was planting a light kiss onto John's lips, and John kissing right back.

 

\---

    On a usual morning in Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson would rise first and early. She'd changed from her pajamas to a nice dress, finish her small bit of makeup and finish her hair. Mrs. Hudson would climb the stairs quietly, not wanting to wake Sherlock or John if either of them were still sleeping. She'd walk into the kitchen, noting that Sherlock's door and the bathroom door were closed, and put a cup of tea on the stove. She'd move quietly from the tea to the oven, where she'd put in a quick batch of biscuits, and sit and wait at the table for whichever happened first - the tea and the biscuits to be done, or the boys to wake up.

    If they didn't wake after another hour or so, Mrs. Hudson would knock on each door to find the rooms empty. Sherlock would be out on a case, and John would be well in tow. She'd first climb up the steps to John's room, finding it empty, and walk back downstairs. She'd move to Sherlock's room, open up, and find it, too, to be empty.

    But of course, this was not a usual morning in Baker Street. The boys had not woken after Mrs. Hudson had waited, and she climbed up to John's room. Empty. From there it was rather safe to assume Sherlock, too, would be out - the pair nearly always left the house together. Mrs. Hudson walked back downstairs, knocked a quiet knock on Sherlock's room, and opened it up, assuming the bed would be made and empty and she'd go back to drinking her tea.

    This time, however, she opened to something she had not been expecting. Sherlock was wrapped up quite well in a mound of blankets, with John right beside him. They were both facing the opposing wall, and John was tucked sweetly under Sherlock's defensive arm. Both of their breathing was long and sleepy and quiet, and it was safe for Mrs. Hudson to assume that they were both still asleep.

    Mrs. Hudson smiled sweetly, remembering all the times John had denied his relationship with Sherlock. Evidently, he had been quite wrong. Mrs. Hudson slipped quietly from the room, and, remembering she had scheduled a lunch out with a friend, scrawled a short message to leave on the kitchen table. She escaped from the Baker Street flat, leaving the two to sleep in complete silence.

 

\---

    In John's mind, foggy images of the previous night danced before his eyes. Seeing Sherlock kiss Molly and end it with an evil grin shook John's entire body, and Sherlocks arm drew tighter over his body. It was then, when he felt the tug of someone elses arm around his, did he open his eyes. Maybe he was missing a piece from the night. Had he met a girl? And yet, when his eyes did open, the room looked quite familiar to him. It looked a lot like... John could practically hear a pin drop when he realized it was Sherlock's room. Maybe he had brought a girl home and picked the wrong room?

    John blinked a few times, adjusting to the bright light. The arm around him did not feel unfamiliar to him. It felt... right. Normal. Not one of a strangers. He peered at it - whoever was wrapped around him was wearing a brown button down. One that looked mighty like something Sherlock would wear... John's eyes followed the shirt from the elbow to the hand. Long, pale, veined fingers that were tucked over him like a tight embrace. It took another moment or two for John to realize that it was Sherlock's body that had him wrapped up like a cacoon.

    For a brief moment, panic shook John's body. This caused Sherlock's arm to pull him closer, now so close John could feel Sherlock's chin on his head. The moment was over quite quickly, though, for a warm sort of reassurance passed through him like honey. It felt... right. And though his head was pounding quite badly, and his thoughts were foggy, he realized for a moment something quite peculiar. He was wrapped up, in bed, with Sherlock Holmes, and he felt no guilt, nor panic, nor regret. All he felt was love.

    Trying to be as gentle as possible he rolled over so he could bury his head into Sherlock's chest, still under Sherlock's chin no doubt. Whether or not the detective was awake or not, John cared not. All he wanted was for the moment to last another thousand years, before the panic settled in for real.

 

\---

    Sherlock's mind was unusually murky. Alcohol consumption? Likely, but not the answer. It wasn't so much that he felt tired, it was more that he felt... right. Warm. Like he was on top of the world. Looking down and seeing that John had turned over to nestle into his chest, Sherlock knew that he was.


	4. Never Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short case fic that reveals strong feelings between Sherlock and John. Specifically John. Post Reichanbach, but they've made up already.

    Sherlock ran down the street, his mind exploding with thoughts just as the building was about to. With Lestrade on his tail, he dashed inside, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him. Lestrade stopped before the great building - a two story warehouse, massive windows, stone walls, and abandoned. A minute of pacing outside later, common sense came back. Get away from the building... but without Sherlock?

    A moment later, a shorter form came running from behind Lestrade. John came to a stop, hands on his knees, his breath coming in raggedy gasps. He looked up at Lestrade, who looked down at him, panicked.

    "Where's Sherlock?" John gasped again, doing all that he could to maintain his breathing. Lestrade glanced quickly at the building then back at John, opening his mouth to speak. Yet there was no time for words. Three loud ticks and the building before Lestrade and John blew up, blasting the two of them backwards onto the pavement.

    John's ears rang and he clenched his fists tight in pain. No pain in the foot, leg, ankle, slight tremor in the left hand, burning in the shoulder - normal enough. But the building before him was up in flames, the windows had shattered, and the walls were crumbling under the weight of the blast.

    "Sherlock!" John stumbled to his feet, clutching at his shoulder, limping as quick as he could towards the building. Lestrade lay on the pavement, trying to catch his breath after hitting his head on the ground.

    "John!" He called, attempting to get to his feet. "Get back, I'm calling the Yard!" Still John moved to the front door of the building, reaching for the ash covered door. The doorknob singed John's hand, and he recoiled in fear.

    "John, get back, now!" Lestrade was on his feet now, making his way towards the short doctor. "John, Sherlock, he was... he was in there, but get back, I'm sure... it's... I called the Yard! Damnit, John,  _get back!"_

John glanced back at Lestrade, who took a step back, frightened. There was a fierce fire, stronger than the one raging on in the building, in John's eyes. He was desperate. For an answer.

    "Greg, was he  _in there?"_ Lestrade bit his lip as John moved, faster now, towards him. "Greg,  _was he in that building?!"_ Lestrade did all he could to stay in control of the situation, but there was no stopping John from gaining the information he needed.

    "Yes, John, he ran in a few seconds before the blast, I don't..." Lestrade's tongue was tied and John knew it. "John, I called the Yard, we'll send in a search..."

    Almost as if on cue, the wail of an ambulance cut into the roaring flames and the scorching heat. The blaring vehicle rounded the corner, several police cars following suit. Someone jumped out of the car and ran to Lestrade, asking him questions. But John wasn't listening.

    He attempted to limp back to the burning building, but already a pair of hands had his shoulders, pulling him back. Was it Lestrade? John didn't turn to find out - instead he kept pushing forward, trying to get back to the pile of rubble that was once a warehouse.

    " _Sherlock!"_ John's voice screeched into the night, the level of desperation and care and fear and panic underestimated by none. He was pulled back harder, until he fell to his knees, terrified. John wheeled around to face Lestrade, the paramedics, whoever was trying to fix the problem - and found the one face he wasn't expecting to find.

    "Seriously, John, have you no faith in my abilities?" Sherlock turned his coat collar up, staring calmly at John. "I jumped out a window before the bomb went off - I mean, I wasn't able to solve it, but I did see someone run off. Let's just hope his body's found on the site."

    John looked up at Sherlock, his expression not changing once. Was it anger? Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on it. Yet John stood, clutching Sherlock's arm like a lifeline. All of a sudden he leapt at Sherlock, sealing the consulting detective in a tight embrace.

    "Sherlock, dear god, please... never leave again... don't... die..." He sucked in a breath, choking on Sherlock's scent. "Please, please, please, promise..." Sherlock stared down at John, a sentiment creeping into his heart. Caring? Sherlock did not  _care._ It didn't work that way. Nevertheless, Sherlock could hear the guilt in his voice when he next spoke.

    "Of course not... I promise, John." Sherlock, to his own surprise, returned the embrace. "Promise..."

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a case, John loses Sherlock, then catches up with Lestrade just as a building explodes. Lestrade shakily says, 'Sherlock was in there...' Around him, Lestrade's team dash around, but John is staring in disbelief at the building. I've lost him again. Then, suddenly Sherlock is next to him. 'Looks like I got out just in time,' he smirks, and John loses it, almost knocks Sherlock over as he clings to him. 'I thought I'd lost you again, I cant go through that again, dont leave me, please, please.'
> 
> -Found on Tumblr <3


End file.
